


sown in sand to drink the dust

by alexodian



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: AU where link wakes up a bit late to find that ganondorf was born, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Ganondorf, F/F, F/M, Gerudo Culture, Good Ganondorf, M/M, Multi, Other, and i have Ideas, different triforce lore bc botw doesn't really bring it up all that much, he's not a child by the time link awakens tho don't worry, the hydrated ganon we deserve, to the original Lady Riju
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-05-13 13:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19251814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexodian/pseuds/alexodian
Summary: Over ten-thousand years without proof, and somehow the legend persists.Perhaps it has stayed so long because of the novelty,Buliara muses, glancing over to the gentle swell of Lady Makeela’s stomach.The idea thatyourchild may be the destined chief, if you’re lucky.It is a myth— and Buliara believes it to be just that, a story and nothing more— that even their current chief believes. So much so that she has chosen her personal guard to confide her little theory in.“Think of thetimes,Buliara. Are they not most desolate? Even thesandis turning against us, now.”“That they are, Lady Makeela.”“And— Can you imagine it? Darling Riju, with a littlebrother?”“I’m afraid I cannot, Lady Makeela.”“Oh, stop it,” she laughs. "Have a littlefaith,my captain."[In which Ganondorf, miraculously, is born, just when the world needs a hero.]





	1. dust to dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/18/19 Edit/Note: based on the dialogue in the game, I'm re-interperiting the Makeela Riju name as having her last name first. Lady _Makeela_ is also the name/last name/title of the unnamed chief that came before her, i.e. her mother.

There are many legends passed down among Gerudo, legends whose origins have grown untraceable with age. Legends of swordswomen and heroines blessed by the divine, of spirits and goddesses that oversee every battle, every war. Legends even of a world before Gerudo— of before a world at all.

Few are still passed down through oral tradition. Many have fallen to the sands of time— fallen along with their last beholders, killed by sickness or sword— and records have become very important for the tribes. Everything is documented, in hopes to retain what is left, to regain what is lost.

Still. There are some legends that have yet to touch paper, have yet to be spoken in a tongue other than Gerudo. Passed from grandmother to mother to daughter for generations, whispered at night around beds and campfires alike, treated as neither fact nor fiction, but something in between.

One such legend is the legend of the male heir.

Born _Gerudo,_ destined to _rule._ A rite regardless of blood, appointed by none other than the goddesses above. A savior, blessed to be chief during a time most dire.

It is one of the most _refuted_ legends, of course— there hasn’t been a voe born in _millennia._ It _may_ be written that Ganon once took the form of such a being, but… the few records found of _before_ the Great Calamity are in a much different language than modern Gerudo, and thus, shrouded in mystery. Even if that _were_ the case, there certainly hasn’t been a voe born since.

Over ten-thousand years without proof, and somehow the legend persists.

 _Perhaps it has stayed so long because of the novelty,_ Buliara muses, glancing over to the gentle swell of Lady Makeela’s stomach. _The idea that_ **_your_ ** _child may be the destined chief, if you’re lucky._

It is a _myth—_ and Buliara believes it to be just _that,_ a story and nothing more— that even their current chief believes. So much so that she has chosen her personal guard to confide her little _theory_ in.

“Think of the _times,_ Buliara. Are they not most desolate? Even the _sand_ is turning against us, now.”

“That they are, Lady Makeela.”

“And— Can you imagine it? Darling Riju, with a little _brother?_ ”

“I’m afraid I cannot, Lady Makeela.”

“Oh, stop it,” she laughs, clear as the waters of the Southern Oasis. Buliara loves that laugh— it tells her that she’s doing her job well, that her chief has such a luxury of ease. Especially now, with the Yiga raiding the outskirts of their territory more by the minute.

The sandstorms have worsened as well, encroaching on lands thought to be safe from them for _years._ Earthquakes, tornadoes, storms— every disaster under the sun has gained a startling frequency.

These are trying times indeed— though, they _would_ each be easy to handle on their own. Even together, if that had been _it._

But.

They are still recovering from the Great Calamity. The _world_ is. Natural disasters and raids will only continue to harm their dwindled numbers. There is a _reason_ the chief has elected to make more than one heir, after nearly ten years. Times have grown... _desperate_  is not something used to describe Gerudo, but it does fit.

Buliara sighs, fixes her grip on her claymore. “I’m being _honest,_ Lady Makeela. There hasn’t been a voe born to us yet. Is it so outlandish to believe there won’t be?”

Her chief just laughs again. “Have a little _faith,_ my captain. Your name means _faithful soldier,_ does it not?”

“My Lady,” she says, suppressing a snort. “We may have two differing interpretations, of that.” She cannot fault her for her hope, though. She wishes she could believe in such a fashion.

“Faithless, then,” she laughs. “Well _I_ think it would be nice. A _son._ ” Her Lady smiles, but it soon falls, as does her gaze. Buliara is not one to speak when not spoken to— not to the chief, no matter how much she insists, at least— but sometimes she wishes she was. Instead, she waits, knowing more will soon come.

Lady Makeela, eventually, does add more. “Riju means _gift from the divine_. Did you know that?”

“I did not.” She does not add the title, though that is the _most_ she will break from her duty. She respects her Lady above all else— but Lady Makeela has never appreciated the extended use of her titles _._ Has never liked being referred to as _chief_ over her name. Would probably prefer her _own_ name, over her ancester's, but no one would dare disrespect her like that, despite her wishes.

No one would claim to be that close, to have the honor of her first name on their lips.

The likes of Lady  _Urbosa_  marked one of history's few exceptions. And  _still_ that came of  _necessity_ rather than _desire_. She came from a small tribe that focused on _sagehood,_ which gave no ancester to claim the name of. She was the first and the last of her line.

But Lady Makeela _wasn't_ , and she carried her name on heavy shoulders.

 _“It sounds so **cold,** ” _ she had explained, when faced with Buliara’s confusion. _“I wish to take part in the warmth my people share amongst each other. The title creates so much… distance.”_

She had looked so _happy_ the first time she realized her kight used no _Lady_ , no _Chief_.

Now, Buliara has learned to hold her tongue, if only to see the same expression.

Lady Makeela lets out a sigh as she adds, “I haven’t quite thought of a name for her, if she’s a girl. I only have one for a boy, as unlikely as it is.”

She nods, and she waits.

“I was thinking— don’t laugh— but I was thinking. _Ganondorf_ might be fitting for a boy.”

 _Ganondorf?_ “As in—”

“ _Vanquisher of Ganon._ It would be fitting, wouldn’t it, for such a child born of these times? What else would such a child be meant to _do_ for us all, I wonder?” Her hand is rubbing her stomach, now, and it is obvious by the size that she will soon again be stepping back to a prolonged post in her quarters.

No matter how much she wishes to push herself, to stay on the throne, especially when confronted so blatantly with the Yiga Clan— she must step back, for the sake of her child. She knows this. Staving off the inevitable was worthless, at this point.

The complications with Young Riju’s birth… no one wants to see that again. It was _ill advised_ Lady Makeela have _any_ more children— but the woman loves her village too much. Loves _children_ too much.

(Sometimes, Buliara wished her presence could be enough for her chief. She knew it never would be.)

“Still, I can’t think of a name for a girl. Do you have any suggestions?”

“I’m afraid I do not,” Buliara says, and she leaves it at that.

* * *

 Lady Makeela has begun to look… unwell. It is such a contrast between when she carried her first child that Buliara _has_ to voice her concern, has to say _something._ It would be— she would be ignoring her _duty_ to keep the chief safe if she said nothing.

“My Lady,” she starts, waiting too long as the chief shifts her head, looks at her with emerald eyes bordered by the grey bags of exhaustion. Her whole face has an ashen tone to it— nothing like the _glow_ she exuded those years ago, when Young Riju was the one she held.

“Yes?” She looks so _tired,_ like she’s struggling to keep her gaze. Only last week, she had been  _fine_.

“May I suggest— it may be out of place, but— I wish—”

“What is it, Buliara?”

“Would you consider taking your leave, now?”

Lady Makeela gives her a withering look, but closes her eyes a moment after. “Do I look that bad?”

There was no stopping the quiet, shocked noise that hit Buliara’s throat. “I— My Lady— That is _not_ —”

“I suppose I do, then. You wish for me to regress to the confinement of my room?”

“Confinement is not how I would—”

“ _Do you?_ ”

She sighs, unable to meet her Lady’s eyes as she says, quietly, “I do. I am concerned for your declining health, and I think it would be… best, for you and for your subjects, to see you at no state worse than this. You took your leave about a month later than this with Young Riju. There is no shame in leaving earlier.”

Lady Makeela gives her a slow blink before she begins to get up.

Buliara leans to come closer, to touch, to help. “Here, let me—”

“I am _pregnant,_ Buliara, not _lame._ I can… stand up on my own, at least.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

Her glare says _yes,_ but her unsteady legs scream _no._

Buliaria does not help, however. She will respect her chief’s wishes, as long as the cost is not her life.

Finally, she steadies on her feet, breathing a bit too heavy. Buliara desperately wishes she was allowed to help her walk, but her honor will not allow it. Lady Makeela said no, and she must respect that.

“Lead the way, then.” Her gesture is sharp at the sacrifice of her stance, and she has to brace herself against the throne for more than a few seconds before she rights herself again.

Buliara watches, brows drawn together, and does as she’s asked.

* * *

“How is she?”

The question has gone unasked for weeks, leaving Buliara wracked with nerves, unable to help, unable to _see._ What she would give to be at her post, at her Lady’s side, while she begins to wither.

She had finally met her breaking point, a month after the chief had her bed turned into a temporary medical bay. Medics are with her at all times, constantly monitoring her, keeping her as healthy as they can.

Buliara feels as if she should be there, too, but she has been barred from entering. She has not asked for an update until now.

It was unbearable to wait. She had resorted to cornering one of the healers— one that specialized in magic more than traditional medicine. She looked the easiest to convince, young and spiritual over her older, more grounded counterparts.

The medic bit her lip. “Lady Makeela has asked that we not tell anyone.”

Buliara let out a terrible, weak sigh, and asked, “Please. I am— I am her _guard._ It is my _duty_ to know.”

“I— But… Lady Makeela…” the girl trailed off, darting her eyes away. “She is not at her best. That is all I will say.”

 _How much worse has she gotten,_ she wondered, _that this girl must keep it so secret?_

* * *

“Captain Buliara. I have an urgent request from Lady Makeela.” The messenger is panting, and there is no question of how hard she must have ran, with an _urgent request_ from the _chief._ “She asks that you return as soon as possible. You have been granted access into her quarters.”

Miles from home, on her first mission in months, and something has to go wrong _now?_ “Dorrah, you’ll stand in for me— Lady Makeela calls.”

“Yes, Captain,” she replies, and then Buliara is off, running as fast as her legs will take her.

( _Not fast enough,_ she thinks, despite the pace.)

* * *

“Buliara,” she says, and is that really her Lady? She looks so frail, so sick. But it must be, because the smile has stayed the same, even laced with pain. “Don’t look so—” _cough—_ “concerned, my guard. I am not dead yet.”

“Yet,” she repeats, careful to keep her voice steady.

“It is seeming like an inevitable.” Her Lady— she has never looked this way, as lifeless as the rivers run dry. “I do not fear it, Buliara. Have some _faith,_ my faithless soldier.”

She has never called her that in _full_  before, and it seems strangely... intimate, given the history. Despite her condition, Lady Makeela remains calm, collected. _How?_

“Do you think this is what it’s like, carrying the boy of legend?”

“ _Lady Makeela,_ are you— still, now, you believe that?”

“I _know_ it to be true. I can feel him— he is growing yet, more than my body can sustain. He is the heir.”

Buliara will not allow herself to become overwhelmed, but she is bordering it. “How can you…”

“ _Buliara._ Have you thought of a name, yet? One other than _Ganondorf?_ ”

She tried to think of one, from time to time, but she had never been strong with those kinds of things. “I have not, but that is hardly—”

“No one can give me one. For another child, yes, but for mine? For _him?_ No one can give me a name.”

When she tries to think on it more, Buliara finds her to be correct. Did that _really_ prove anything, though, other than her lack of creativity?

“My faithless soldier, that is—” she coughs, again, this time again and again until she finally regains her breath.

“My Lady—”

“Listen to me. I wanted to ask something _else…_  Something that has bothered me.

"Yes, My Lady?"

"Why did you change your lipstick?”

Oh, no. She noticed.

Buliara had hoped she wouldn’t— she had started to wear pink over green mere days before she had been forced away from her Lady’s side. It was… embarrassing, to be caught like this, displaying her status as _no longer searching_ so plainly. But it had felt so  _right_ in the moment, and she couldn't bring herself to switch back.

“I— felt the need to. Focus on other matters, my Lady.”

“Don’t lie to me. I think… we both know. I just want to hear you say it.”

Shifting, Buliara concedes. She must, faced with not only her Chief, but.

“I have elected to wear pink because I could never focus on another while I am yours, my Lady. Nothing less, nothing more.”

“Oh? Nothing more?” Lady Makeela, despite her sizable stomach and the frailty set into her frame, manages to lean in with an impressive amount of intimidation. “If that’s so, you will refuse a kiss, correct?”

“A- A _kiss?_ ” That was— unexpected, and a complete breach of etiquette— Lady Makeela was her _superior,_ her _chief_. "My lips are _— not white,_ my Lady."

And yet she leaned closer, and her smile looked the same as it always did. Joyful and playful as ever. “If I _were_ to kiss you, would you refuse? Yes or no, Buliara. I will not ask again, if it’s a no.”

“I—” and what was she supposed to do? _Lie_ to the face of whom she wanted to lie to least? “I—”

“Answer, Captain.” She was so _close,_ she could feel her words as she spoke them, hot breath against her cheeks—

“I— I would not. Refuse you.”

Her _smile,_ again. Buliara _loves_ that smile.

“Good. I wish not to waste more time, then.”

She has to admit, though, she loves her lips more.

* * *

In the end, Lady Makeela had been right.

Her body had not been able to handle the strain, but she had pushed herself to _live_ until she saw the face of her child.

“It’s him,” Buliara says, voice filled with so much emotion it was nearly breaking. She felt so _much_ — surprise, shock, joy, grief. Loss, especially, but there was also _life_ she could not ignore. It was  _impossible_ to ignore the child—  _male,_ just as she had said. He cried, against Makeela's chest, but there would be time to quiet him in a moment.

“Ganondorf,” Makeela laughs, though it is not the same, this time. It's small and weak and Buliara would give anything, _anything,_ to hear it's bright call once more.

Her smile is unchanging, though. Still laced with pain, but as clear as water.

“You were right, my—” And she can't just say _Lady_. Not like this. “ _Makeela._ Kotume.”

“Do not fret,” She whispers, the hand that doesn't cradle the child of prophecy reaching to touch Buliara’s cheek. “This is not the end, my faithless soldier. Now is my turn, to watch over you.”

It rained in the desert for the first time in ages, after she breathed her last, and Buliara thought, nonsensically, that it must have been _her._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps I gave her the first name kotume as a sort of hybrid between koume and kotake, aka twinrova, aka ganon's mom/s
> 
> pps if you want to discuss hydrated ganon hmu [here](https://discord.gg/4jp2mfN) on my discord
> 
> 6/18/19 Edit: changed a line about the time period between Riju and Ganondorf's births for consistency and added a few sentences about Urbosa's tribe/ancestry/name.


	2. sun and shade

The new Lady Makeela is the youngest chieftain the Gerudo people have on record, crowned at a mere nine years old. It’s a wonder there hasn’t been one younger, with the ways their laws work—even a newborn vehvi could be a Lady, at least in name.

 _Most went without children, though,_ Riju thinks, frowning atop the throne. _There isn't enough time to be a Lady and a mother._

Riju doesn’t know how her own mother did it for as long as she did—

(And yet she does, thinking back to getting Patricia. At six, she hadn’t cared much for the rarity of a blue sand seal, and her mother hadn’t found the time to get her anything else before she passed.

Now, double the age, she visits the seal every morning. Talks to her, thinking of her mother.)

It’s frustrating, to be stuck waiting on the throne when there is so much to be done. Both her people and her responsibilities loom over her despite her growth; every step forward feels like a step in the sand, progress erased each day with the news she gets. Whether it the unending rampage of Vah Naboris or the shameless encroaching of the Yiga or the whispers, even, of the bad omen brought by her brother. 

She tries not to dwell on the last one, though it is difficult. _Ganon will grow taller_ and _Ganon will have it worse_ always come as quick reminders of the reality of his future. He is only a handful of years old, but she knows he will grow strong—or, rather, she hopes. Prays, sometimes.

Buliara insists on calling him _Ganondorf,_ because, _“Just calling him Ganon takes away the meaning of his name, Young Lady.”_ Riju rarely listens.

(She hopes she can live up to the meaning of her own.)

Riju hopes she can see him soon. For now, her little brother lives within the walls and tunnels of Gerudo Town, hidden away from the outside world while she walks the sun-baked paths of the surface and waits on the Sages. She understands why he must _hide_ , and she understands why he must hide _here_ , but it is frustrating all the same.

 _Perhaps,_ she muses, smirking a little. _Perhaps we can dress him as a vai?_

He would pass as a little sister, she thinks, or a cousin or a friend—and he could wear all the clothes she’s grown out of, everything that she can’t wear because she has to wear clothes fit for a _Lady_ —

“Young Lady Makeela,” Buliara says, startling Riju out of her daydreaming.

She turns, cupping her chin with her palm as she rests over the arm of the throne. “Yes, Buli?”

Buliara ignores the nickname in favor of moving to her place beside the throne. “Your guests will soon arrive.”

Riju rolls her eyes. “You know you don’t have to _warn_ me—”

“It is _protocol,_ ” Buliara says, ornamental claymore slamming down into place, “for me to tell you. Take care not to take _insult_ to something as simple as following the rules. And straighten the crown. You must show respect, young one.”

 _She’s testy today,_ crosses Riju’s mind as she straightens the gold in her hair.

There’s no time to ask why, however, as the sages walk in, adorned with their scarves and their jewels and their layers that are familiar and yet foriegn all the same.

And, this time, they are not alone. There are a handful of elders, too, with mixed expressions. Riju recognizes them all, but it is _Rima_ that catches her eye the most. The retired captain of the Guard.

_Is that why Buliara’s acting like this?_

Rima slams down her own claymore, the one she retired with, and while the noise is much quieter than Buliara’s it’s far more deafening. “Lady Makeela,” she says, without so much as a _Vasaaq,_ “Ganondorf cannot be made Lord.”

Riju was _not_ made aware this was to be the direction of the meeting. In the _throne room,_ of all places. “And why do you say that?” she asks, tone light in lieu if spitting how that isn’t anyone’s decision to make other than her own.

“It is _law_ that he _should,_ ” one of the sages, Yemirah, cuts in. “We propose to prepare an overturn of leadership in the coming years instead.”

“And put an even _younger_ child on the throne? A _voe,_ no less?”

“Are you unaware that this throne is his _birthright?_ ”

“Is it not _Lady Makeela’s_ as well, then?”

“The _choice_ is _hers,_ Rima!”

“Then _let her choose!_ ”

“Buliara,” Riju whispers, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I could not,” she replies, mouth tight. “They outrank even I. In politics, at least.”

Riju dislikes politics, she decides, as she stands in a practiced motion. Silence quickly clouds the room and she regrets having to break it as she says, “I will not give up my throne.”

The glare Yemirah puts on is far too nasty to go with her robes, but Riju makes sure to wipe the smile from Rima’s as she adds, “We’ll just have to make another fit for my brother, won’t we?”

* * *

“That was rude of you, Young Lady,” Buliara says, when they are back in her room. The sun casts an orange glow against her jewelry and armor, and Riju wonders what Ganon would look like in this light. His hair has always looked more orange than red, she thinks.

The meeting had gone on for a few hours more, but her stance had not changed, and by the end of it both the elders and the Sages had left without their blessings.

It does not matter, though. She is chief, and her word is law, for better or worse.

Buliara is watching her with an unrelenting gaze. Riju cannot decipher what that means, and her guard turns away before she can ask.

“You were rude, but you were right,” Buliara sighs. “Ganondorf cannot be hid away forever, and yet you cannot give up the throne. Joint rule— that is smart, Young Lady. You uphold tradition, both law and legend.”

Riju’s jaw would drop if she had not been trained to hold her expression by now. Still, it nearly does.

“You have done well today, Lady Makeela. Your mother would be proud.”

When she looks to be done, Riju breathes out, “ _Sarqso_.”

Buliara nods. They sit there, under the eye of the descending sun, until Riju continues. “Can we go see her, tonight? And…”

“We can, Young Lady.”

Riju grins. She stands, flattens out her skirt, and follows Buliara down into the depths of the palace. Eventually they reach a torch-lit archway, adorned with beautiful stones and dyes and flowers, and they sit where space is carved into the wall, careful not to step on the sun-bleached sand that surrounds.

Buliara takes off her sandals first, setting the khussa beside her, and Riju follows the action, follows as she grabs a golden bowl and ladles the sand over each foot. They’ve been here enough times that she knows she must cover both seven times, once for every heroine.

(She does eight instead, the last for Lady Urbosa. She should be considered one of the heroine, she thinks.)

She shakes her foot free of the sand, then, leaving the pale dust, and together they walk into the damp halls of the catacombs.

Riju knows the way to where her mother rests, but Buliara still goes first, takes a torch from the wall and lights the flames framing the tomb. She then kneels, briefly, and Riju knows she is sending a prayer, however brief.

She then stands, hesitates, and mutters, “Don’t wait for me,” as she leaves.

It is difficult to sit still, then, and she squirms on her knees. Riju _wants_ to pray. She sends her regards to her mother, tells her about her day like she would tell Patricia, and she listens. Not for her mother— 

(Well, maybe a little.)

—but for what she knows is coming.

The quiet slap of running feet comes sooner than later, and she braces herself, grinning despite herself. They do this every time they meet here alone—Riju acts like she doesn’t hear, and Ganon—

Riju feels the world go sideways, and she can’t help but laugh, turning the tackle into a hug.

“ _Riju,_ ” he says, though he should whisper, “How have you been?” They see each other often, but it’s been weeks since they’ve met like this, maybe months.

He’s taller, and she can tell he’s been training from the set of his shoulders. He’s only a few years old, but Gerudo mature fast, and Riju is beginning to miss how he looked when he was still a newborn.

This Ganon, though, she can talk with. “I’ve been good. It’s boring up there, you know.”

“Well it’s boring down here!” he exclaims, smiling despite his words. She can’t help but smile back.

“How have your studies gone?”

“They’re going well. I think—” he huffs. “I think Teake wants me in the barracks. She says I’ve the build for it.”

“Do you _want_ to be in the barracks?” She doesn’t know what she’d tell everyone if he didn’t want a throne after all.

“Not really,” he says, and she could sigh in relief. She doesn't. “It’s alright, but. I much prefer reading. I found a book, down here—”

“ _Down here?_ Have you been _stealing_ from—”

Ganon looks horrified. “No! No, I would never— I’ve just been _reading,_ that’s all. A book about sorcerers— twins— that raised a king for the Gerudo. It isn’t true, I know, but it’s so _interesting_. I think I like magic, Riju.”

“I’ve no talent for it,” she says, remembering the Thunder Helm, how little it speaks to her. “But you do? Already?”

“I can make fire,” he says. “But I can’t do much else. One of the twins, in the story, she can wield fire— I hope I can do things like her, one day.”

 _He’ll wear the Helm, then,_ she realizes, as he talks on and on.

They talk and they talk about their days and their nights until Ganon goes quiet.

“What is it?” She asks.

“So.” He shifts. “You’ve come to see mother?”

Riju freezes, but she nods. “Yes. Today was— today was a lot. I made an important decision, I think.”

“What?”

“You’ll get a throne.”

“What?” he blurts, no mind for his conduct. Riju would correct him if they weren’t alone, talking about deciding their future. “But— I thought you— You’ll step down?”

“No. I’ll keep my throne.”

“But—” and he blinks at her. “You mean. Together?”

Riju nods.

“Like the sorcerers,” he breathes, awe written into his eyes.

“In a way, I suppose we will be,” she says.

Ganon looks up to the tomb they sit in front of, decorated by the town, and for a long moment Riju’s breath stays caught until he shifts into a kneel.

“I wish I met her,” he says, hands gripping his shorts.

“Me too,” Riju says. She forgets if she’s talking about him or herself.

“Would she be proud? Of me?”

She wants to answer _yes, of course_ right away, but that’s not what Ganon is asking her for, so she thinks. Thinks about her mother, her kindness, the time they spent together. It was little, Riju is realizing, but she cherishes the memories all the more for it.

 _“No matter what you do, it’ll be great,”_ she had said, when Riju had come to her, crying over her studies. She has long forgotten the specifics of the memory—she was so young, at the time, barely old enough to be studying at all.

 _“How do you know?”_ she had asked back, and her mother had simply swept her into her arms and said, _“Because it will be you doing it.”_

Riju decides, “I think she would be. Proud of you. Us.”

Quiet falls, then, and neither speaks for a long time. She knows he must be praying, but she’s said all she can, so she watches him until she knows she has to leave. “I should get back.” She wishes she didn’t have to go.

“So soon?” Ganon says, but he’s getting up anyway, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. The catacombs are cold, especially at night, but he’s always ran warm. “I miss you, you know?”

“I miss you too,” Riju says, pulling him close. “I’ll come see you again soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

The walk back is silent. When she reaches the entrance again, Buliara is there, claymore gone but scimitar present on her hip. She doesn’t speak as they put their sandals back on, or when they walk back.

When she leaves Riju that night, however, she whispers, “Goodnight, Young Lady.”

“Goodnight, Buliara.” She wants to say more, but she doesn’t know what. Buliara is gone before she figures it out.

(She dreams of three thrones and eight swordswomen, that night, and forgets the dream by morning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha this took a while but i havent forgotten about this story! hope yall enjoyed it :)


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